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‘That’s right.’ Saira drew herself up to her full height and was disappointed he still had the advantage; nevertheless her voice was firm. ‘Honeysuckle Cottage.’
A frown grooved his brow, drew thick brows together, and he began to shake his head, as if he did not know what she was talking about.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve not heard of it?’ Her tone was loaded with sarcasm. ‘It’s in the village, the first house round the corner from here. I’ve been told that you seem to think it belongs to you.’
His frown deepened. ‘Who told you that?’ he asked, a sharp, critical edge to his tone.
Saira held his eyes coldly. ‘I hardly think that’s relevant.’
‘I do not regard my business as the affairs of others,’ he told her sharply.
‘What are you saying? That you bought the cottage or not?’
He appeared to consider his answer; taking a couple of paces away from her and then turning again, several seconds elapsing before he said quietly, ‘I believe I did buy it.’
‘You believe?’ Saira snapped. ‘Then you believe wrong, Mr Brent. The house is mine.’ Her green eyes were ablaze with anger and she found it difficult to keep a limb still. This man was making fun of her.
‘If you are so sure it’s yours, what are you doing here?’ His blue eyes were fierce also, fixed on her with unnerving accuracy.
The seemingly innocent question provoked her even more. ‘Because the key I have been given won’t fit. You’ve changed the locks, damn you. You had no right, it isn’t yours. It belonged to my aunt and now—’
‘Elizabeth Harwood was your aunt?’ he cut in, his brows drawing together, his body growing still at this surprise information.
‘That’s right,’ snapped Saira, ‘and she—’
Again he interrupted her. ‘Elizabeth and I were very good friends.’
It was Saira’s turn to look astonished. ‘You don’t really expect me to believe that?’
He inclined his head, and now the smile was back in place. ‘It’s true, we had a fine friendship.’
‘And you’re saying you bought Honeysuckle Cottage from her?’
‘That’s right.’ He looked supremely confident, the smile even wider now on his handsome face.
‘I don’t believe you.’ She looked at him challengingly for several long seconds, feeling an urge to wipe the smile away; there was nothing funny at all in the situation. ‘My aunt left me the cottage,’ she blazed. ‘She wouldn’t have done that if she’d sold it to you.’
Thick brows rose. ‘There has to be some mistake.’
‘No!’ Saira shook her head wildly. ‘I have proof, I can show it to you.’
‘I don’t want to see your proof; the cottage is mine,’ he announced brusquely, and again he took a couple of paces, but this time towards her.
Saira lifted her chin defensively, eyes a brilliant, angry green. ‘In that case I would like to see your proof.’
His lips quirked. ‘I dare say the deeds are filed somewhere.’
‘You dare say! ‘ stormed Saira, completely incensed by this man’s far too casual attitude. ‘Am I supposed to think that your word is good enough?’ She had never stopped to wonder why she had not been given any deeds herself. In fact she hadn’t thought about deeds at all. She suddenly realised how ignorant she was where house ownership was concerned. But she had no doubt that Mr Kirby had it all in hand.
Jarrett Brent stared at her coldly, suddenly angry. ‘My word has never been questioned before.’ His grey business suit did nothing to hide his masculinity; he was all raw manhood and Saira knew that in other circum-stances she would have found him attractive. But not now, not today; he was the enemy and it was a serious battle she was fighting.
‘Well, I’m questioning it.’ Saira told him. ‘I came here planning to spend the weekend and that’s what I’m going to do. In fact I shan’t go back home until the whole matter’s sorted out.’
‘There is nothing to sort out,’ he announced loftily, his deep blue eyes watchful on hers. ‘The property is mine and I have plans to extend and modernise it and——‘
‘You can’t do that,’ she cried out in alarm. ‘It’s mine. Just a minute and I’ll prove it.’ But a search of her handbag showed that she had forgotten to bring the letter from her aunt’s solicitor.
He stood now with his arms folded across his wide chest, his legs slightly apart, his face stern, his whole stance one of haughty, powerful arrogance.
Their eyes locked and warred and Saira’s chest heaved as she fought for control. He had strong capable hands, she noticed, long, well-manicured fingers spread on his forearms, and she wondered briefly what he did for a living—besides being a property owner! Power emanated from every bone in his body.
‘I have proof,’ she persisted, ‘most definitely I have proof. I have a letter from Aunt Lizzie’s solicitor. I thought I’d brought it with me, but——‘
‘And if I provide proof of my own?’ he cut in coldly.
‘I’ll contest it,’ Saira’s voice was loud and hostile, and she tried to match his demeanour with one of her own, standing tall, her chin high, her eyes ebullient.
Jarrett Brent’s lip curled, but there was undisguised admiration in his eyes. ‘You’re quite a spitfire.’
At his words something clicked in her subconscious, gone again instantly, forgotten in this battle of ownership. ‘Aunt Lizzie wanted me to have it; we were very close. I spent all my school holidays here. She would never have sold it to you, I know she wouldn’t.’
Jarrett Brent pushed his fingers through thick brown hair, cut viciously short. It would have suited him longer. The thought flashed through Saira’s mind and was gone. Damn the man, what he looked like didn’t matter. It was the sort of person he was that was at issue—and she sure as hell did not like what she saw.
‘Perhaps she had no option?’ Vivid blue eyes watched her closely.
‘Perhaps you didn’t give her any?’ she retorted. ‘Or perhaps you thought she had no relatives and decided to spread the word that you’d bought the cottage, adding it to your not inconsiderable list of properties. Oh, yes, I know all about you, Mr Brent, much more than you think.’
‘Indeed?’ Brows rose yet again, but there was anger now inside him. Gone was the mockery. He didn’t like her attitude, the way she was sticking up for herself, the things she was saying. He had probably never met anyone like her before.
Saira knew she ought to watch herself but instead she stamped her foot. ‘Lord, you’re the most infuriating man I’ve ever met. You say you have proof? Well, show it to me.’
Thick brows rose reprovingly. ‘Why should I do that when I have no proof that you’re who you say you are? Lizzie never mentioned you to me.’
‘And she never mentioned you to me,’ Saira flung back.
‘Then we’re in a stalemate position, wouldn’t you say?’ Eyes locked, hostility reigned; it was a battle royal they were fighting.
‘This is an intolerable situation,’ she cried. ‘Where the hell am I going to sleep tonight if I can’t get into the cottage?’
‘You could go home,’ he suggested easily.
‘I have no transport,’ she told him, ‘and even if I had I wouldn’t go, not until this matter’s sorted out.’
‘So how did you get here?’
‘I came by train and taxi,’ she told him coolly.
‘And you dismissed the driver without first of all making sure that you could get in?’ He made it sound as though it was an incredibly stupid thing to do.
‘I never dreamt for one moment that the key wouldn’t fit,’ answered Saira hostilely. ‘Do they have rooms at the Challoner’s Arms?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ And he looked as though the fact pleased him.
Saira eyed him stormily. ‘I’ll find somewhere to stay. I’m most definitely not going home until I find out who the legal owner of Honeysuckle Cottage is.’ She would ring her employer and tell him that she was taking the few days’ holiday he owed her.
‘You’re a hell of a determined lady, I’ll say that for you.’ It was a grudging compliment.
Saira had never needed to stand up to anyone the way she did to this man; she was seeing a new side to herself. But there was a whole lot at stake and she had the feeling that if she walked away from here now she would lose the cottage altogether. ‘Where’s the nearest hotel?’ she asked.
‘Thirsk, I expect.’
‘Then perhaps you’d kindly ring for a taxi and I’ll book myself in there. But I’ll be back, Mr Brent, you can be sure about that.’ She would phone her mother and ask her to send Mr Kirby’s letter. With a bit of luck it would come in the morning and then she could present Mr High and Mighty Brent with it. That would wipe the smile off his face.
‘I have a better suggestion.’
Saira frowned suspiciously. She didn’t like the look in his eyes.
‘You can be my guest.’
‘And stay here,’ she derided, ‘in the camp of the enemy?’ This was the last thing she had expected and it wasn’t what she wanted at all. ‘No, thank you.’ Lord knew what his motive was, but it didn’t appeal to her one little bit.
‘I wasn’t talking about Frenton Hall,’ he answered impatiently. ‘I was referring to the cottage.’
Saira frowned. ‘That doesn’t make sense. You’re claiming it belongs to you, and yet you’re prepared to let me use it. Why?’
‘Just until the legalities are sorted out.’ The wolfish smile on his face suggested that he knew what the outcome would be.
And although half of Saira’s mind screamed that it was wrong, the other hot-headed half agreed. It was her right, after all. This thing had to be sorted out, and being here on the spot was the best way to do it. ‘I guess your conscience is bothering you?’
‘I was merely thinking of you,’ he announced carelessly. ‘It seems a bit pointless going into Thirsk when the cottage is sitting empty.’ He took a key off the keyring in his pocket and handed it to her.
So the man had a heart, of sorts! Saira eyed him with no real pleasure. ‘I’d like to say it’s very kind of you but I don’t think kindness plays a part in it. I shall be back, of course, with the necessary proof, and then you’ll see for yourself that Honeysuckle Cottage is most definitely mine.’
Head high, Saira marched out into the hall and across the polished wooden floor to the door. Mrs Gibbs was nowhere in sight and when the door would not open it galled Saira to have to stand back and let the obnoxious Jarrett Brent do it for her.
‘Goodbye, Miss Carlton.’ The aggravating smile was on his lips. ‘I shall look forward to your next visit.’
His nearness was a very real threat. Saira felt her heart beat unusually fast and was intensely aware of his raw masculinity and the danger he posed. This was no ordinary man. He appeared laid-back and friendly but beneath the surface he was as hard as steel. OK, he had offered to let her use the cottage, but she was damn sure it wasn’t a simple, generous gesture. There had to be some motive.
She walked stiff-backed all the way up the long drive, wondering whether she was being watched or whether he had closed the door and immediately forgotten all about her. Meeting a man like Jarrett Brent was certainly something she had never expected when inheriting her aunt’s cottage. She couldn’t accept that he was a friend of Lizzie’s. No friend would take your home from you. He had to be lying, and she was determined to find out the truth.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_5d28aa31-71a3-56e8-9c38-a6bca2f94a28)
SAIRA felt oddly uncomfortable letting herself into Honeysuckle Cottage, and she blamed Jarrett Brent for it. He was trying it on, she felt sure, making out he had bought the cottage when really he hadn’t, but he was so convincing that there had to be some thread of truth in his story. Maybe he had been friends with her aunt; maybe he had once mentioned buying her property— but Lizzie’s will was surely proof enough that nothing had ever been done about it?
The front door led straight into the sitting-room and she dumped her bag and looked around, smiling sadly to herself. It was just as she remembered: a little dusty, but otherwise looking as if all her aunt had done was step out for a while.
It was a comfy, cosy room, the traditional chintz very much in evidence, lots of brass—which needed cleaning—lots of pictures and ornaments and lace mats, the usual bric-a-brac old ladies would collect over the years—and, most poignant of all, her aunt’s rocking chair.
Saira felt tears spring to her eyes and her mouth twisted ruefully as memories flooded back. She had spent so many happy hours here; her aunt had read to her, played with her, loved her, kissed her better when she fell down, bathed her, fed her, brushed her hair; and as she grew older listened to her teenage problems, dispensed advice, never lectured, always understood.
Saira’s own mother had always been very strict and consequently Saira had never been able to talk to her, always turning to Aunt Lizzie. She truly missed her.
But it was no good standing here crying, she must ring her mother, she must sort Jarrett Brent out. Mentally she straightened her back. To her horror the telephone line was dead, and when she tried the light switch there was no electricity either. Not altogether surprising, since the cottage had lain empty for a couple of months, but she began to wonder whether Jarrett Brent hadn’t deliberately suggested she stay here knowing there were no conveniences. From what little she had seen of him so far it seemed the sort of despicable thing he would do.
Her first thought was to march back up to the Hall and confront him with it, but that was probably what he expected; he probably even hoped she would turn around and go home! It had been his cruel way of getting rid of her.
Saira’s chin came up with characteristic stubbornness. She could manage for a day or two; she would light a fire to heat water, even cook that way if necessary. He would soon find she wasn’t so easily put off.
Saira used the phone box at the end of the village and Margaret Carlton was equally horrified by the claims this man was making. ‘Of course I’ll send you the letter, but why don’t you go and see Mr Kirby? Goodness, Saira, do you want me to come and sort this man out?’
Saira laughed, though there was not much mirth in her voice. ‘Really, Mother, I can look after myself. I just need proof that I’m Elizabeth Harwood’s niece and that I’ve inherited the cottage.’
Perhaps her mother was right, though, and she ought to see Mr Kirby, thought Saira as she made her way back. She glanced at her watch; almost four on a Friday afternoon—far too late. But on Monday, if nothing had been sorted out, if Jarrett Brent hadn’t done the decent thing and admitted that the cottage belonged to her, she would go to see him.
She found firelighters and matches and coal and soon had flames leaping up the chimney. But her sense of achievement was short-lived when foul-smelling smoke bellowed back into the room, making her cough and choke and run to open doors and windows.
Having only ever known central heating, Saira wasn’t familiar with open fires and it took her a second or two to realise that the chimney must be blocked—probably by a bird’s nest.
The acrid smoke belched out ever more thickly and, not knowing what else to do Saira filled a jug with water and flung it over the coals. The joys of country living, she thought despondently. Oh, well, a sandwich and a glass of milk would have to do for her supper—if the village shop was open! Otherwise it would be another visit to the Challoner’s Arms.
Fortunately the shop had not closed and Saira stocked up with a few provisions, and found out that Mrs Edistone had already spread the news that Saira Carlton was claiming Honeysuckle Cottage. ‘I wish you luck,’ said Mary, the elderly shopkeeper; ‘the squire’s not an easy man to tangle with.’
Saira spent the next hour cleaning and polishing. Little smuts of soot had settled everywhere and the smell was acrid. Aunt Lizzie had kept the place spotless and Saira wanted everything to be the same; she wanted nothing changed.
She slept that night in her aunt’s spare bedroom, the one she had always used as a child, the one with rosesprigged wallpaper and old walnut furniture, and although she was desperately tired thoughts of the obnoxious Jarrett Brent kept her restless.
The day’s totally unexpected events churned round and round in her mind—and she still had a fight in front of her! Something else puzzled her, too. There was something about this big man that nagged in the back of her mind. She felt sure she had seen him some place before but could not work out where. She tossed and turned and thought and pondered, but no answer came.
She was up at dawn and thought longingly of a cup of strong, hot tea, and to take her mind off it she went for a walk. She watched the sun paint the sky with touches of red and gold, she walked through the lanes, she looked at Frenton Hall and called Jarrett Brent all the names she could of, and then went back to the cottage and ate cornflakes with cold milk.
What time did the postman come? she wondered, sitting in her aunt’s rocking chair, positioned where she could see out of the window. Aunt Lizzie had spent hours here watching the world go by and now Saira did the same, rocking backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, her thoughts seesawing in just the same manner, from Jarrett to her aunt, from her aunt back to Jarrett. Could she believe that he’d had some sort of friendship with her?
It was almost nine before she saw the familiar red post van making its way slowly down the street and she was outside on the doorstep when he neared Honeysuckle Cottage. ‘Saira Carlton?’ he asked, and when she nodded, ‘I didn’t know anyone was living here. I heard the old lady had died. A shame, I liked her.’
‘That was my aunt,’ said Saira, and hoped he was not going to stay and talk too long. She was anxious now that she had Mr Kirby’s letter to go up to the Hall and confront Jarret! Brent. He would not expect her to get irrefutable proof quite so quickly.
To her relief the postman bade her good-day and continued on his rounds and Saira, after checking to make sure it was Mr Kirby’s letter, pulled on her jacket and set off for the Hall. She kept her finger on the bellpush for several seconds and when Mrs Gibbs opened the door Saira smiled wickedly. ‘I’d like to see Mr Brent, please.’
‘Is he expecting you?’ The same dour expression was on his housekeeper’s face.
Here we go again, she thought, and tilting her chin she looked the woman in the eye. ‘Oh, yes, he’s expecting me all right.’
‘I have not been told.’
‘Nevertheless he is expecting me,’ Saira insisted. Did this woman have orders or something to let no one through? ‘Is he in?’
‘Well, yes, but——‘
